The Children of Dawn

There exists, in a dark and forgotten recess of the universe, a small, red star. It is one among a hundred billion nearly identical suns, and all of these are the least of the stars in the cosmos.

But this star is special, for it has a name: Lor. It was given this name by the creatures that live beneath its crimson light, circling slowly on their little rock. This planet sits so near to its star that it becomes tidally locked – one of its faces is perpetually scorched by Lor, while the other is eternally sealed in glaciers taller than any mountain.

But in between, where the bridge of twilight joins night to day, there is a belt to which life clings. Where the glacial runoff creates vast lakes and broad, slow-moving rivers that wander off into the untold lands.

And here, where dawn is without end, is the region of Ravýrald, where the Oronýn and the Shóroca make war.

“Please, my son, don’t go. The ancestral forests are treacherous; they will give no reward for your guardianship.”

The words of Shórovash’s parents echoed in his mind. He had lived a sheltered life. 343 times Nandýnu had come and gone across the sky while traveling the Oronýn claim, living safely within the tribe. Now, having been an adult for a few years, he’d decided the time had come to cast his fears aside. He pledged himself to become a gýpa – a warden of sorts, a warrior bound to watch over the paths to the ancestral forest and keep any from entering it.

Only, his fear hadn’t remained back with the rest of the tribe as he’d hoped. Rather, it followed him all the way to his destination: Óruen Ágaa, a small camp only a few miles from the limits of the forest. Lor had fallen so far in the sky that only its crown could be seen. The redness had dulled and left things all around stained a subtle but uniform maroon.

And the temperature had dropped starkly. This was felt all too keenly but the animal on which Shórovash sat, a lósnodom named Rinnoshún. Rinnoshún had been a gift from Shórovash’s uncle, who had no child of his own. Though long-legged and gangly like any of its kind, Rinnoshún was tougher and faster than the rest. The two of them had bonded over moons growing up, but never more than the journey to Óruen Ágaa which had seen Kro, the smaller moon, travel halfway across the sky.

He pulled Rinnoshún astride the main tent and bade her sit. Her long legs folded up beneath her, allowing Shórovash to dismount. She remained at rest as her master went inside.

“Welcome.” The warm greeting came from an older man seated behind a tapestry with a map of the area drawn atop it. “We’ve been waiting for you; you have undergone all your training before coming, yes?”

Shórovash nodded curtly, too nervous to speak.

“Very well,” he said as he stood. “All that remains are the emblems.” He turned to a rack positioned in the corner of the tent and retrieved two items: a cloth sash, and a large blade.

First, he placed the sash over Shórovash’s head, hanging it over one shoulder. The section that crossed his chest bore an animal hide patch with an inscribed sigil – the sigil of the gýpaa, meant to protect him if he ever entered the ancestral forest.

Though, he hoped, that would not be soon.

“This is your nokýl. With it, you will keep the people separate from the sacred woods by what means are necessary.” With that, the older man handed him a broad, foot-long blade with a characteristic curve. Then he added, “This may be a bit heavy for you. We will find one better suited to you eventually.”

Satisfied, the old man took a step back and looked Shórovash over. “It is complete. Now you are a gýpa; the forest is in your charge.”

His words gave Shórovash pause. “I don’t feel my training has prepared me entirely for this duty.”

The old man gave a soft but somewhat weary smile. “None of us are entirely ready for work of such importance. But, with time, I think you’ll come to feel at home in – ”

His sentence was interrupted by the footfalls of lósnodoom outside the tent. The man gestured for Shórovash to follow, and they stepped outside to find two men drawing near to the tent. The old man’s face was at ease, and Shórovash was certain these men were wardens of Óruen Ágaa.

Upon one of the beasts, however, was bound a young man. He couldn’t have been much younger than Shórovash.

“Shóroca?” the old man asked.

“No,” said the one with the captive, a hint of disdain in his tone. “He is Oronýn, yet we found him in the forest.”

“Says his name is Kádueg,” the other elaborated.

Oronýn? The way his parents spoke of the ancestral wood with such fear, Shórovash thought none bold enough to trespass but wardens and heretics. He could scarcely believe one of his peers would do such a thing.

“Tie him up in the lósnodom tent,” ordered the elder. “Then one of you will gather some provisions and meet with the tribe to find his family.”

Throughout the process, the young man remained sullen and quiet. He barely even looked up to see Shórovash standing there.

But that was not the only interruption in store. Very shortly, as one of the men was preparing to leave for the tribe, a messenger arrived with grave news. The Shóroca had gathered in great numbers at their borders, and all their warriors were needed to hold them back.

 Shórovash grabbed the hilt of his knife. The elder must have seen him, because he said, “No, Shórovash. You are too inexperienced to enter battle. You will stay here and guard the camp.”

And not too long after, the four of them had set off, leaving Shórovash alone.

Except, not entirely.

Shórovash sat down where Kádueg’s grim countenance could be seen. The latter glanced up at him only to set his gaze once more on the sandy ground. Normally very guarded, Shórovash was confused by the curiosity welling up within him. He stood slowly and made a cautious approach. He stood unmoving at the entrance to the smaller tent, looking over the younger man until Kádueg finally looked up.

“Do you stand in judgment?”

“No, I – ” Shórovash stumbled. “I’m only…wondering. Why would you go into the forbidden wood?”

A silence so long followed that Shórovash was sure he’d get no answer.

But then. “I sought my father.”

“…He entered the forest?”

Kádueg glanced up briefly. “In death, yes.”

Grief can move one to do the unimaginable. Shórovash felt compassion for him.

“And did you find him?”

The captive could only shake his head. “I didn’t have enough time.”

Shórovash gazed out in the direction of the forest. Though his parents instilled in him fear of the dark, his perception of the ancestors had always been benevolent. After all, the tribe was made up of their children. Even if a child overstays his welcome, his parents will still love him. Right? And any parent would be eager to help if they knew their child was in distress.

“I’ll take you as far as the first tree,” Shórovash found himself saying without thinking.

Kádueg was stunned, looking at the new warden wordlessly.

“If that is what you want…?” Shórovash pressed.

“More than anything.”

Shórovash quickly unbound Kádueg’s hands. “Come.”

They hurriedly walked over to Rinnoshún, now dight with a saddle bearing the sigil of the gýpaa. Once upon her back, Shórovash urged her on and the three were on their way to the ancestral forest.

Rinnoshún rode west for several miles. All the while the sun only dimmed in their wake. Finally, ahead in the darkness, a glimmer of soft, bluish light shone forth. The first tree. It stood alone, a good ways away from the rest of the sparsely dotted trees. The veins of its leaves glowed hauntingly in the endless night. Shórovash halted Rinnoshún’s advance just in front of this lone guardian.

“We’ll never see anything from here,” Kádueg lamented.

He was right. The forest was many more miles deep before it reached Ransýyr-Sind – the Lake of Lights – and all that way cloaked in ever-thickening gloom. But Shórovash was full of apprehension as the night loomed before him.

“Please,” Kádueg urged. “He must be in there somewhere.”

Shórovash finally relaxed the reins and gently urged Rinnoshún forward once more.

As they edged ever deeper into the ancestral forest the plants became more plentiful and shone in many gentle hues. Though the sky ahead remained as dark as charcoal, the ground was lit wherever a lone plant stood. Having spent his entire life drowned in the red glare of Lor, Shórovash was overwhelmed with awe at the array of colors before him.

Suddenly, a sound came from the right. Shórovash’s head snapped in that direction, fearful of what beast might emerge in such a wood.

There, gripping the bark of the nearest tree. A small, six-legged creature covered in wiry hair. The hair on the creature’s tail was long and bushy, and the tips of those hairs glowed in several colors. No longer afraid, Shórovash was rather taken with the creature. He turned Rinnoshún to approach. As they neared the tree, the creature bolted up to the nearest branch. The commotion alerted more of them in the tree, and they all ran down to the ends of the branches.

Then they spread their legs and glided through the air before landing on the next tree.

On instinct, Shórovash impelled Rinnoshún to give chase. The creatures lept for the next tree, and then the next. The two young men gaped at the glimmering tufts of fur shooting through the sky, barely keeping pace.

Eventually, he made Rinnoshún stop and allowed the gliders to settle on a tree just out of reach. He dismounted and then walked haltingly toward them.

He extended a hand.

Nearly a dozen little eyes peered down at him. Until one of them cautiously made its way down the trunk. Its eyes looked intently into Shórovash’s own as if to interpret his intentions. When the gýpa made no aggressive move the glider tilted its head, inquisitive.

Surely

, Shórovash thought,

the ancestors will see that I mean them no harm

.

His fingers closed to within a few hair widths of the glider’s dark nose.

And then it was gone.

They all were. Scurrying along the branches to find a new refuge. Away from the rustling in the nearby underbrush.

As the two Oronýn watched with bated breath, the subtle illumination of the plants dotted low-to-the-ground cast light on the culprit. It was half as tall as the long-legged lósnodom they rode in on, but thicker set. It carried itself on four sturdy and wooly legs and bore winding patterns across its flank that gleamed with yellow and orange colors. It had large jaws and large, forward-set eyes. Both men had heard tell of such a beast.

Simuénkam. The night-claw.

Shórovash slowly retreated toward Rinnoshún. As he moved, the simuénkam locked eyes with him. They sat there, frozen, unsure of each other for a few moments. Shórovash took an uneasy step back. But then, the predator not-so-gracefully leaned back and set down on its haunches. As Shórovash came alongside the mount the night-claw began grooming, nibbling at its forearm under thick fur.

While the gýpa groped behind him for the reins, he heard Kádueg whisper. “My father…he always said he’d return as simuénkam. It was his fondest hope.” He made pointed eye contact with Shórovash, full of concern.

Shórovash considered the creature. It did seem placid, despite the many testimonies he’d heard as to their ferocity.

“…Go to him,” Shórovash suggested.

Kádueg gulped. “What if it’s not my father?” Still, he slowly clambered off the lósnodom.

“Then it is still one of our ancestors. We will beg their pardon and then be on our way.”

The younger man delicately stepped toward the creature. 

“Father…is that you?”

The bearish animal continued grooming, untroubled.

“It’s me…it’s Kádueg.”

The head turned to look at the speaker, jowls lifting slightly with the motion.

By now, tears had begun to appear in Kádueg’s eyes. “I came to find you…father, I miss you.”

The arm it had been grooming returned to the ground and its eyes did not waver from Kádueg.

“Mother…she misses you too.” At the mere prospect that this might be his late father, Kádueg opened his very heart. “She has hardly spoken a word since we lost you. The only time she will even look at me is when she tires of my weeping.”

The man’s now ragged sobbing got the night-claw’s full attention.

“I know I cannot ask you to come home…I only need you to know…you were more important to us all than you will ever understand.” He took another step forward.

The simuénkam’s jowls lifted once more, but deliberately this time. It growled.

Kádueg was too caught up to even notice. Or maybe he did. “I just want to be here, with you.”

“Look out!” Shórovash yelped.

The beast reared up to its full height, towering over them, and let loose a roar that shook their stomachs and sent Rinnoshún to flight. Despite his more typically fearful disposition, Shórovash lept through the air. He unsheathed his nokýl; as the creature’s arm fell toward Kádueg, Shórovash thrust the broad-knife at it. Neither claw nor blade connected, but both were now certain that their very lives were threatened.

“Go find Rinnoshún!” the older boy demanded.

Unarmed, Kádueg eagerly obeyed, running after the terrified animal.

Shórovash turned to look at the simuénkam once more. “Hear me, ancestor! We meant no ill; please, let us leave in – ”

A deafening roar cut him off as another swing barrelled at his head. There would be no reasoning.

Neither would there be any escape.

The massive paw collided with his skull, sending him spinning to the ground. The pain of the hit and the fall conspired with the tumble to completely disorient the young man. He scrambled about until he found up and put his feet under him. The speed with which he stood sent a shock through his bruised head.

But he had no time to recuperate before another pain shot through his shoulder. He screamed, turning to see the bear’s jaw locked onto him. It threatened to rend his arm from his body.

Acting without thought, Shórovash cast his arm up at the muzzle of the simuénkam, gripping the hefty blade tightly.

He felt it connect.

A gut-wrenching yelp sounded from the beast’s maw, and its jaws opened as it fell back to the ground. Shórovash realized how deep his blow had sunk when the blade was wrested from his hand, fixed in the creature’s skull.

The simuénkam shrunk back, shambling through the darkness. Shórovash shook and gasped. But the glow of the lights on the creature’s dark blood awoke him from his instincts. To him, this was no mere animal. And so, shakily, he followed it. He trailed it until it came to a large hole in the side of a small hill. Its footsteps became more and more unsteady until, finally, it collapsed mere feet from the den.

His own legs giving way, Shórovash knelt by its head. The two former enemies remained still beside each other. By its erratic breathing, Shórovash knew it had no strength left. As guilt plagued him for taking the life of an ancestor, he placed a reassuring hand on its brow. After a few moments, he even laid back against the pillowy fur of its flank. What were only minutes felt like hours, looking up at the stars and the lights on the trees. And in those drawn-out moments amid the ancestral wood, Shórovash found his peace.

Thereon, Kádueg happened upon him, Rinnoshún in tow. Face twisted with regret, he knelt beside his fellow Oronýn and the simuénkam – which had breathed its last by this time.

“We must return you to Óruen Ágaa!”

Shórovash only shook his head feebly. “I am weak from my wounds. I will not recover.”

He could see that Kádueg was overcome with uncertainty. “It is as it should be.” He placed a hand on Kádueg’s shoulder. “I have taken a sacred life. I cannot leave with my own as a spoil. I must make due.”

Gritting his teeth against his own anguish, Kádueg placed a hand on Shórovash’s shoulder as well. “Brother, forgive me. This is my doing. Your blood is on my hands.”

Shórovash found himself genuinely smiling. “No, my brother. I chose this path. And what’s more, you have gifted me a rare privilege. For how many of us will die surrounded by the lights of our ancestors?”

Kádueg seemed ready to respond when, just then, the older boy’s arm weakened, going limp. Not dead, but surely near to. Kádueg caught it before it could fall to the earth and draped it gently across his chest. He could think of nothing else to do but to keep watch over him until he had passed.

And then, everything was silent.

Until, just as Kádueg stood to take leave, he heard a shambling sound. When he looked up he saw, in the gentle light of the forest, a pair of eyes looking at him from the nearby den.

A young simuénkam. Just old enough to fend for itself.

“So,” Kádueg smiled sadly, “The forest has deemed you worthy for your sacrifice. Be at rest, Shórovash. Enjoy the peace of the ancestral realm. I hope our paths will cross again someday, noble brother.”

Kádueg bestraddled Rinnoshún. He took one last look at the cub, which took a single step toward him.

And began the journey home.